Pomp and Circumstances
by triquetral
Summary: His family needed him, he was there, end of story. For nong pradu's birthday fic request No. 26: The day Dean drops out of school. A pre-Stanford one-shot.


**Disclaimer: Don't own. So sad. **

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"Mr. Winchester, I thought I'd been perfectly clear before..."

"You were. Crystal." Dean fought to keep his face earnest looking. He was really tired of school counselors, especially the non-female types who were especially hard to win over.

"So tell me again why you were out on Friday?"

And there was the crux of the issue. You couldn't go around telling the school counselor that you had to leave with your dad on urgent monster-hunting business. Life just wasn't that easy.

"Stomach bug." Dean shrugged.

"Stomach bug?" The counselor pressed. He was a middle-aged man, with terrible taste in ties and an overly kind expression. Unfortunately, he was also a real hardass about the rules – constantly going on about how the structure provided will serve as lessons valuable to him later in life.

"Yeah, stomach bug," Dean repeated. "It was coming out of both-"

"-Enough, Mr. Winchester!"

Dean held in a smirk. It was a fact that held true in any school system – mention diarrhea and no one wanted to go into any details with you.

The counselor, Mr. Thomasworth, sighed heavily. You'd have thought that truancy was on level with the Cuban Missile Crisis. "What do we do here, Dean? You're only a couple weeks away from graduation. I don't like these rules any more than you, but we _have_ to follow rules. Even ones we don't like. If you're out two more times this year, we won't be able to give you your diploma."

Screw that. There were only a few weeks left. Dad said he was planning on sticking around, working a civvie job to get a head start on the summer bank roll. He could handle the last few weeks of the year. No sweat.

"Don't worry. I'll be walking down that aisle with all the rest of those jer-, er, gentlemen. And women."

"I hope so."

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:::

Dean was cooking pasta. Cheapo meal – spaghetti and tomato paste, especially when you'd had botany shoved down your throat and knew what time of day your neighbors were out of the house so you could steal from their garden. Dean always regretted not having enough time in one place to start his own herb garden.

"How'd school go?" John asked, his worn boots thumping across the floor.

"Fine." Dean replied.

Side by side, father and son stood for a moment. John washing grease off of his hands, Dean stirring the sauce.

"Nothing new happened?"

He was not about to tell his dad about the counselor's office. He'd made sure his dad didn't know about the attendance policy for fear that John might go off alone on a hunt where he needed the help. It wasn't an unfounded fear, either. Some months, particularly the weeks leading up to November second, John got downright reckless.

"Nope. Boring beginning, boring middle, boring end. Just like the books they make us read." Dean joked.

John didn't smile back – at first, but then he cautioned a smile towards Dean before resuming a straight face. He turned back toward Sam, who was at the table doing his homework.

"How about you, kid?"

Dean turned around to hear Sam's answer. He hated the way the stupid school district had things set up, so that he wasn't in the same school as Sam anymore. He was sure he was only getting half the story on some of the things that had been bugging Sam. A couple of times he had cut class and wandered over to the other school's campus, just to make sure his little brother was okay.

"Fine, dad."

A two word answer today. If they were down to single 'fine,' Dean knew he'd need to press Sam later for more detail. He turned back around to stir the sauce, added another basil leaf.

"What homework you got there?" John craned his neck to see what Sam was writing.

"Spanish."

John shook his head. "I don't get what kind of school doesn't offer Latin."

"Which you've said every time you see me doing my Spanish..." Sam didn't bother to hide the sass from his tone. For once John didn't rise to the bait and Dean was grateful.

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Later that night in bed, it isn't him pushing Sam for more answers, it's Sam pushing at him.

"Is something going on with you, Dean?"

"With me?" Dean turned his head toward his brother, not hiding his surprise.

"Yeah – with you. Seemed like you were...I dunno, furtive."

"Furtive, huh? That one of your PSAT words?" Dean grinned widely at Sam. "Bet you've been dying all day to fit that into a sentence, huh?"

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean. "I'm being serious here."

"Okay. So – seriously - there's nothing going on." Dean said, intent on getting the message across.

Sam had been on his ass about graduating, but didn't know the attendance policy for the high school. He didn't need Sam trying to use his Debate Team skills every single time Dad needed him for a hunt. There was no negotiation – if his family needed him, he was there. End of discussion.

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There was a week and a half left of school, the senior class was in party mode. Pranks abounded. Of all the times to be in school, this was probably the best. He even had quick make out session with that Betty chick from Calculus. She was all cardigans and knee-high argyle socks and who even named their kids Betty anymore? Either way, it was sweet.

It was the same routine at home as always when John was around more. Sam was keeping to himself, but he tended to do that when their father was home. Excepting dinner time, then they all sat together like the All American Family they were. Not quite nuclear, but they still had the occasional implosions.

Dean was making pasta – again. John came home from the auto shop he'd found a temporary stint at, washed up his hands. Sam wasn't at the table.

"Can you keep an eye on this?" Dean asked his dad, waving a wooden spoon around, bits of tomato flicking off onto the counter.

John took Dean's place by the stove without a word, swiped a towel at the mess.

Dean wiped his hands on his jeans, wandered over to his room, found Sam curled up on his bed. Sam was not one for going to bed early. Sam was one for reading books under the covers with a flashlight into the wee hours of the morning. So, this – this was strange.

"Hey, dinnertime."

Sam gazed up at Dean, pale-faced. "Not hungry, man."

"You okay?"

"Fine." Sam said with a grimace, curling up a little tighter.

The one word 'fine.' He was so _not_ fine.

Dean approached the bed, sat down on the end. "Seriously, dude. You okay?"

"Just – nauseous." With that Sam shot up straight as an arrow, hand covering his mouth. "Dean!"

In a microsecond Dean had grabbed the trashcan and put it in front of his brother. In the nick of time.

"Good god! What did you eat?" Dean watched with sympathy as his brother contorted forward repeatedly. It was like the food was trying to escape prison or something. Fucking Attica.

Eventually, Dean looked up from his hurling brother to see his dad standing in the doorway.

His dad seemed hesitant, unsure about how to approach a teenager who seemed to be scrabbling for independence daily. How to still scoop Sam up in his arms and give him ginger ale like it was a magic potion...

Dean turned to face him, his hand still on Sam's back, giving him a look that said, '_Don't worry, I got this_.'

What he actually says is, "Food isn't burning is it?"

The look his father gives him is strange, some kind of gratitude and relief mixed up with knowing it is ten shades of wrong to just walk away from your sick child, to entrust him to your other kid. Even when you know that other kid has been a better parent than you.

What John actually says is, "I'll go check."

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Dean stayed awake with Sam all night. Bleary-eyed in the morning, Dean went to make himself a cup of coffee, found a note from his dad that said he'll be at the shop and to call him if Sam gets worse.

The expectation was there – that Dean would stay home with Sam. And it isn't like Dean wouldn't do that anyway, he'd already planned on it. It just – grates at little. Dean quickly reminded himself that he didn't tell his dad about the attendance policy, had – in fact – intercepted every letter the school had sent home about it. His dad didn't know – so it wasn't his fault. Still, according the policy he had one day left. And it was Friday, so Sam had the weekend to get better.

Dean spent most of the day camped outside the bathroom door, alternately shoving water and Gatorade into Sam. Later in the afternoon, they migrated to the couch, Dean trying to teach Sam the finer points of poker in between shaking a sleeve of Saltines at him. Mostly Dean just watched Sam sleep, nearly dozed off himself. It was a comfy couch, one of the better ones that they'd taken off of someone's curb.

Sam felt better at the end of the day – that's all that mattered.

John comes home with subs for him and Dean and soup for Sam.

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The weekend is the same routine as always, training. By Sunday afternoon, Dean is feeling a little off. Heavier, like he can't kick as high. Dizzy. He's sparring lightly with Sam when he has to stop.

Sam crossed the sparring circle to where Dean was holding up his hand, asking for a minute. Sam put a hand on his older brother's shoulder, tried to force some eye contact. "You okay?"

"Get off me, dude. I'm fine."

"You're white as a sheet, Dean."

Bile. Bile rising up. He could nearly taste it. The coffee from this morning, acidic. Suddenly his mind was revisiting everything he'd eaten that morning. They were _not_ happy thoughts.

Sam frowned at him. Ten shades of wrong having his little brother be concerned like that. "Dad...?"

"Oh Jesus, Sammy..." Dean groans. Ugh. Not a good idea to open his mouth. Attica.

John was sitting at the picnic table in the backyard, books spread out in front of him. He glances up and sees what's going on, jumps up and jogs over to his boys.

"What's going on? Sammy get a shot in? Where'd he hit you?"

"It wasn't sparring, dad." Sam patiently explained. "I think he's sick with what I had."

John glanced over Dean's hunched form, the white face tinged with green. Yeah, his kid was going to be hurling soon. He took Dean's head in his hands, felt the damp of mingled sweat from exertion and illness.

"M'fine, Dad." Dean protested.

"Head inside, Dean." John said, firm – no nonsense. "The Pepto is in the fridge."

No sooner does Dean get inside than the contents of his stomach decide to go on strike, can't even get to the kitchen for the Pepto. It is miserable and painful, and it was too bad they didn't keep guns in the bathroom, because – good lord – death was preferable.

His dad comes in, puts the bottle of pink stuff on the counter, some Tylenol too. Asks if he needs anything, and Dean waves him off. He really doesn't want his dad to see him in this state.

He's clutching onto the rim of the toilet bowl, praying for solace, having an actual conversation with his stomach in his head when he is interrupted.

Sam puts a cold cloth on the back of his neck, sits next to him with a bottle of Gatorade. "Drink, Dean. Like you told me to."

And he does.

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This goes on all night, alternating his dad and Sam checking on him, getting him medicine, fluids, and a clean shirt after he misses the toilet. It has a certain rhythm to it and Dean is surprised when the rhythm is interrupted by the smell coffee. It is morning. He has school. He has to go or he won't graduate.

Dean pulled himself up from the ceramic bowl, willing his stomach to stay put. Vertigo spun his vision in twirling circles, he's dehydrated and he knows it, can feel the thirst begging to be quenched. Can also feel his stomach ready to revolt if he sticks more than a thimbleful of water in it. He managed to walk to the kitchen, clinging to the wall.

Another surprise today, John and Sam sitting together having coffee.

At the sight of him they both jump up. Dean slaps Sam's hands away as he tries to help him the rest of the way into the kitchen.

John frowned at Dean's trembling hands. "How you feeling?"

"Peachy." Dean made a show of exuding health, only sort of hopeful that it would work. He forgot to brush his teeth, so the only thing he was probably exuding was vomit breath.

"If you have what I had, you're going to be throwing up all day," Sam said pointedly.

Dean shook his head (and whoa is that a bad idea), "I'm good. We're gonna be late. Just let me shower and we can go."

"Dean, you look like you're going to fall over."

Dean rolled his eyes, his stomach rolling at the same time, and leaned himself heavily on the counter. "Sammy, I'd love to stand here arguing with you all day, but we really have to go to school."

And that's just it. He can't explain to either of them that if he doesn't go today, there's not going to be a diploma a week from now. It doesn't bother him so much until he thinks of Sam's disappointed face, even his dad's.

John played the trump card. "Well, have some breakfast before you go."

He slapped a plate of eggs in front of Dean, who promptly began retching strings of bile into the kitchen sink.

Dean felt a strong hand patting him on the back. "You're staying home today, kid."

:::

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The blow up was kind of extreme. The school called home at a time when John happened to be there - home early from work to check on Dean, since Dean insisted Sam go to school. Nothing to bring a little excitement to your day like hearing the words, "I'm sorry, sir, but we cannot let your son graduate."

John sat down on the couch with Dean, who was still deeply in the throes of whatever virus he'd caught from Sam, draped on the furniture like a slipcover - puke bucket not a foot away.

After being yelled at for what felt a very long time, and probably was, Dean explained the best he could, "They're just really strict, Dad. And when it was a choice between helping you and taking care of Sammy or going into sit in some classroom...? No contest."

And then Dean's face fell. "I'm sorry. If I hadn't gotten sick, you wouldn't have to deal with this. Should've gone in today."

John's rough features softened just a bit. He was pissed as hell, sure. His son wasn't going to graduate. How many times this year had Dean missed school, because John needed him armed and ready? How many times had it been to take care of Sam? And here his son was, apologizing when he'd still been puking his guts out not an hour ago.

"You should have told me."

Dean wouldn't look at his father's eyes, already expecting anger and disappointment.

"But this isn't your fault, Dean."

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Predictably, John stormed into the school, rounded on the counselors. He brought forged medical records that proved beyond a doubt that Dean had a legitimate reason for being absent.

It didn't matter. Summer school, he was told. That was the option. But they wouldn't be there in the summer. John was planning on the next move being in two weeks.

That meant repeating senior year at wherever they settled next. No friggin' way.

"You need to get your diploma, Dean. It's important."

"To who, Dad? Other hunters? To a werewolf?"

Sometimes when John looked at him, Dean knew where Sam got his bitchface from.

"Look, I've sat through everything. The whole year. And my grades are decent, passing. It's just a stupid rule. Why make me repeat everything? It is just a waste of time. I could be out there with you."

John heard it, the eagerness in his son's voice that Dean tried hard to keep hidden.

"You're getting your GED," John said firmly.

"Okay, fine." Dean nodded.

"_This_ summer, Dean, you're not putting it off. Once we get to South Carolina, we're finding a program and you're taking the damn test."

There was more John wanted to say. That Dean deserved to have the diploma. That Dean deserved to walk down that aisle with other kids his age. That John had wanted to see it, maybe take pictures. Graduating high school was a rite of passage. He'd taken it away from his son, made his rite of passage digging up graves. Dean was the one playing Catch & Release with anything that hit his disgestive tract, sure, but John felt sick as well.

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It was harder telling Sam.

"What do you _mean_ you're not graduating? Your last report card was awesome." Sam stood there, hands on his hips like a girl, and it took everything Dean had to remain serious.

Because he knew Sam was taking it seriously.

"It's just a dumb rule, Sam. That's all. They have so many days you can miss, no matter what your grades are, no matter what excuses you have. They want me to do summer school, but we're not going to be here."

"Then tell dad to stay, Dean. This is important!" Sam was wide-eyed, staring at Dean with his 'duh, this is obvious' expression.

"Saving lives is important, Sammy." Dean tried to keep his voice light, but there was a tone to it. His brother never understood why their father's work was so important and he didn't want to get into it now. That argument was a whole other ball of wax.

And Dean knew, he _knew_ that Sam was itching to blame their dad for this, to blame the hunts and the moving. Dean didn't want that argument to happen – because maybe it was just a little true.

"We need to move on. I'm gonna get my GED, don't worry. You can even help me study, if you want."

Sam sighed, knowing the decision had already been made _- without him, as always_ - and sat down on his bed."You're saying that every day you missed -- so when you stayed home with me on Friday...? I'm sorry, Dean."

"Oh, don't you start with that," Dean cut in. "You were sick, man. Could barely lift your head out of the john. You needed me, I was there, end of story."

'Cause that's how it always is with the Winchesters. They need Dean, he's there, end of story.

Sam was still looking at the floor, so Dean nudged him. His stomach already hurt, he didn't need to be carrying around the brick of anxiety that was Sam's Disappointment.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked.

"I dunno, man. I guess I was just looking forward to it. Seeing you graduate, y'know?"

Dean did know, because he'd thought about it too. How great it would be to have his father and little brother in the audience, get his name called, go up on the podium and look right where his family was clapping for him. Yeah, he'd fantasized. And now that it was gone – he felt a little robbed.

"Tell you what. I get my GED, we'll go out – celebrate. Have a little _graduate_ fun, huh? Maybe I'll even meet a Mrs. Robinson." Dean poked at Sam, wore the crooked grin he donned like a favorite pair of jeans.

"That's gross, Dean," Sam blurted out, trying to hide the grin on his face with fake revulsion.

"Speak for yourself. Older ladies have experience."

There was a pause of companionable silence.

"It's not the same," Sam murmured.

Dean didn't say anything – he knew what Sam was meant.

"It doesn't make a difference," Dean said. And as far as he was concerned, mostly, it didn't.

Either way – the trade was 'Pomp and Circumstance' or being there when his family needed him.

It wasn't even a question. He was going to be there.

End of story.

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